CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Bozeman Café, which was owned and operated by Gerald and Cindy Bozeman, was humming with all kinds of gossip concerning the murders of Martha Camp and Terri Helms; not to mention the Bobby Taylor assault on Mary Achtenberg.
The simple café could accommodate some sixty people if need be; nevertheless, it usually sported only ten to fifteen through the week for lunch and dinner hours, respectfully. Saturday evening being the big-crowd night where up to pert-near fifty customers would descend to eat, play cards and have a merry-old-time indeed. Of course, closed on Sunday’s out of respect for the Lord’s Day of rest, as were most businesses.
Artless walls displayed only the local photographs of families and friends alike; with first, second, and third ribbon awards from the area school events which entailed track, baseball, and football; and let us not fail to mention the 4-H prize winner’s achievements.
Other such items of triumph were small plastic trophies announcing the topnotch winners of such events as watermelon seed spitting, horseshoes, cow roping, horse races, and things of that general nature; all proudly exhibited for all to gaze upon while satisfying their hunger pangs, and their need to socialize.
All-in-all it was a pleasant little establishment; where one could feast on plain cuisine such as meatloaf and gravy, chicken fried steak and home cooked grits; and all at a reasonable price to boot.
Sitting at the far end of the café were Nigel and Mable Zeeks who were enjoying their lunch, or at least, Nigel was trying to enjoy his.
“You know it’s those damn aliens that killed Terri Helms. They were probably after old man Darnell’s bull and she got in the way. You know they mutilate animals all the time around these parts,” Mable whispered to her husband.
Nigel had warned her about talking openly about such things; for fear the authorities would come and lock her up in the nuthouse. “Hush now, don’t go gettin’ yourself all riled up. Like I said before, not everyone believes in such things dear.”
“Oh, they believe all right, they’re just scared to speak up. Just a bunch of frightened sheep. Just do what they’re told to do. It’s pathetic if you ask me.”
“Now sugarplum, please, let’s just finish up and head home. No sense making waves; especially since the poor sheep couldn’t care less about what we have to say on the subject of spacemen,” he said trying to pacify her.
“Whatever you say dear, but you know I’m right.” Nigel was the only person alive who Mable trusted; all others could chew tobacco and die as far as she was concerned.
“Father Lonigan stopped by the barber shop earlier, and asked if we were planning on attending Martha Camp’s funeral next week. I told him we’d be there. She was a fine woman, and a good wife to Beau.” Nigel commented softly as he wasn’t sure how Mable would respond.
“Are you kidding me? That woman never had a kind word to say about me, you, or anybody else for that matter.” Mable was starting to get riled-up as usual.
“Now sugarplum…” Nigel saw several of the other diners glancing their way; whispering and pointing, he was now becoming a tad fretful. Over the years he’d developed stomach problems; which Doc Otis Pearlman, now fifty-five, potbellied and half-bald, jokingly said could only be cured by a swift divorce from you-know-who.
“Don’t ‘sugarplum’ me. You know it was her nutty husband who killed her; and she probably deserved it.”
“For heaven’s sake dear, Beau didn’t kill his wife, and Martha wasn’t a bad person. Many folks here bouts loved her very much. Martha never spoke to you because you didn’t speak to her. Now isn’t that spot-on sugarplum?” Continuing to whisper in hopes she would settle down a bit as his stomach was starting to gurgle; yet it was not to be.
“Beau Camp’s ‘cheese-done-slid-off-his-cracker’ a long time ago, and everybody knows it! I can’t believe they haven’t locked that crazy bastard up by now; and Martha Camp never gave you the time-of-day, so stop talkin’ her up! Just another high-toned snob lookin down-her-nose like Beau’s dead mother did!” She yelled. Mad-Dog-Mable was very truculent with her opinions; yet, as more often than not; she could dish it out with gusto, but could not take it in kind.
Buddy Wilson was sitting at the short, eleven-stooled counter, and like the others he could not help but overhear Mable’s little diatribe concerning the Camp’s. Winking at Cindy Bozeman, who was topping off his cup of coffee, “Old Mad-Dog-Mable is at it again.”
“She’s all bark and no bite, so I don’t pay her no heed,” Cindy said with a big toothy-grin, “and don’t you be tryin’ to get a rise outta her either, you hear me Buddy?” She pointed and wiggled her finger right in his chubby face, “And stop tellin’ everybody about her ‘catnapping by the little-green-men’ story, it’s not even that funny.”
“Yes ma’am, I hear ya.” Replying with a huge grin of his own.
Just two tables over from the Zeeks sat the Mueller’s; Herbert, and his charming wife Hazel. They close the Drug store every day for one hour, so they can come and enjoy a leisurely meal; that is, except on those occasions when the Zeeks show up. No eye contact, eating quickly and making a bee-line for the exit, was their way of avoiding Mad-Dog-Mable and her nauseating temperament. It was displeasing enough to have to wait on her at their Drug Store; so they were motivated, to say the least, to dodge her if at all possible when out and about in the community.
Doc Otis opened the door to enter, when he recognized Mad-Dog-Mable’s voice, he momentarily froze in his tracks. Quick thinking on his part saved the day as he turned around, and made a hasty retreat, almost running smack-dab into Ruth Anderson who had just come up behind him. Excusing himself, he fled the café as though he’d just robbed the place.
Doc Otis came to Oklahoma some twenty-seven years ago, from a small town in Mississippi named ‘Boonville.’ On his way to Dover, Nevada to visit relatives, Doc was just passin’ by Saint Cloud when his car blew a radiator hose; which he was told would take several days to receive the parts and make repairs.
During that time, he met a waitress named Bonne Sue Greenfield, and he was so smitten, he stayed and set up shop. Otis and Bonne Sue were wed just four months later. For seventeen and a half years they lived a fairytale life, or so that’s how Otis tells the story.
There were a few bumps in the road along the way; two miscarriages early on, but that never stopped them from tryin’ for children. Yet they were not to be blessed with any; and their life together was still fulfilling right up to the day Bonne Sue suffered a massive stroke. She lived for thirteen days then suffered another stroke which ended her life. Within the month, Doc took up self-medicatin’ himself with Vodka; it’s been a demon on his back ever since.
Ruth wasn’t sure what to make of Doc’s antics, until she herself entered and spotted Mable. She made her way to the counter and quietly sat down. Cindy Bozeman saw her come in and retrieved the covered dinner plate of fried chicken, green beans, and fried taters she had prepared a few minutes earlier.
“I hope Mary enjoys the chicken, I made it the way she likes, not too crispy,” Cindy said handing the covered plate over to Ruth.
“Oh, I’m sure she will. Poor dear, her neck is still sore from that Taylor boy bout. How much do I owe you?” Ruth said unsnapping her little tan change purse with its folded up money and assorted coins.
“Never you mind; you just tell Mary; me and Gerald are prayin’ for her speedy recovery, and we hope they catch that no good Taylor boy soon.”
“Thank you for your kindness, I know it means a lot to poor Mary how folks have been stoppin’ by with food and the like.” Ruth started on her way out…
“Look at that Nigel,” Mable said turning and pointing at Ruth, “sheep…nothin’ but scared sheep around here I tell ya.”
Ruth didn’t stop to engage Mable; for she had already experienced the wrath of Mable on several other occasions, and since she didn’t fare so well during those encounters, she didn’t even look back as she fled the cafe. Wasn’t long before the Zeeks finished; Nigel headed back to the solace of the Barber Shop and Mable headed for home.
After they exited the café, Buddy said in his most somber, yet comical voice, “God help the poor man or beast who crosses her path.” Pretending to cross himself; Cindy just rolled her eyes and went on about her business, trying to ignore his antics.
Gerald and Cindy were both thirty-five, born and raised in Saint Cloud. They had lots of family and friends here bouts. All faithful and loyal Catholics to be sure. They had been running the café for only the last four years. It was called ‘Harry’s Eatery’ before they purchased it from the elderly Donaldson’s; who sold out and headed for California or so the story goes.
Berta Franklin rolled in and parked herself on an adjacent stool next to Buddy, a man she knew intimately. Berta was the wife of Sam Franklin who was the owner of Franklin’s Market. Berta was thirty-seven years old and a plump, sassy woman with dark auburn hair that hung to her shoulders, and sported two inch bangs. Not her real hair color, but it did make her look very appealing to Buddy.
Sam Franklin, who just turned forty a month ago, was of medium build and stood five foot ten inches. Hardly ever seen without his special-ordered red baseball cap, which he used to conceal his rather large bald spot on the back of his narrow head—had a penchant for dallying with the local harlot’s, that is, until that fateful night his wife found out.
The Franklin’s were separated; especially since divorce was a no-no for so-called good Catholic’s. Father Lonigan had tried to reconcile the two; but Berta couldn’t get over the fact that Sam had cheated on her with one of Johnny Hudson’s whores, who worked out of Mike O’Malley’s tavern; some speculatin’ it was Terri Helms and none other. The story goes; Berta found out and hit Sam with an iron skillet, nearly killing him. If not for Doc Pearlman, Sam might have gotten a visit from the undertaker. So, no reunion is expected anytime soon in the foreseeable distance.
Now staying with a close female friend, Berta see’s Buddy on the sly. Good Catholic or not, a woman still has her needs, and Buddy, for now, knows how to satisfy those needs. Most folks know about them meeting on the sly, but to be polite, they pretend otherwise. Yet, most feel Berta could do oh so much better than Buddy, but, then again, who knows what virtues a woman sees in such a grubby little man.
Later, after sundown, the town appeared peaceable and silent. Folks settled in for the evening as the night sky filled with millions of twinkling starlight’s. All would be as it should on this uneventful evening; no bogymen were lurking about seeking mayhem, or so the fearful prayed.
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SAINT CLOUD GAZETTE
POLICE BAFFLED SAYS MAYOR CARVER
Mayor Carver said the police were following up on clues found at the crime scenes of Martha Camp and Terri Helms; yet was unable to say what clues had been found. It is unknown at this time whether the police are withholding information from the Mayor, or if they are simply incompetent and just trying to keep the local community from panicking.
Further developments will be reported promptly by this newspaper.
Story by: Jonah McGregor
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Fifty-nine and broad shouldered, Brent Carver had been Mayor for the last eighteen years; always running unopposed in every election. Not because he was the perfect man for the job; more like, nobody else wanted to fool with the low-paid position.
A towering figure of a man; more to do with his weight of over three hundred pounds, than his height, which was still impressive at six-foot two-inches. Hazel-green eyes, full head of soft-whitish-gray hair cut short and parted on the right side. Lots and lots of liver spots dotted his large forehead and hands; a very substantial drinker without a doubt. Doc Otis said he’d be mighty surprised if Carver made it to age sixty-five; of course, Doc never had the mettle to say it to his face, and him bein known to pull a cork or two himself.
Mayor Carver stormed into Chief Hudson’s office and slammed his copy of the Saint Cloud Gazette on his desk, “Have you read today’s Gazette? That little snake took everything I said and twisted it into this pack of lies!”
Chief Hudson looked at the small newspaper, and then leaned back in his chair as he calmly folded his hands in his lap, “Now Brent, did I not warn you before about talking to the press?”
“Well, yes, but my god Frances, that little whipper-snapper changed what I said into this heap of bullshit. I’ve got a good mind to go over there and give that little snot a good old fashion talkin’ to!” he roared pacing back and forth in front of Chief Hudson’s desk.
“Now, now, what did I just say? You go over there, and that little half-wit Jonah will just make more headlines out of whatever you say. You just need to relax and settle down now. Folks around here know the score. Just let us do our job; and once we get the culprits, all will be back to normal again. Just stop giving interviews and you’ll come out smellin’ like a bushel of roses; trust me on this, okay?”
“Stupid little bastard, I’d like to put my foot up his skinny little ass, that’s what I’d like to do!” he barked as he stormed out of the Chiefs office.
Chief Hudson just shook his head in disbelief as his old friend took flight. Some people just let anger get the better of themselves, he thought.